


Breaking Some Greggs

by Scrunyuns



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Age Difference, Boss/Employee Relationship, Boundaries, Desire, Disclaimer: Tom Wambsgans’ fucked up opinions are not necessarily shared with the author, EXTREME fantasizing, Fair warning: This fic is HORNY but not necessarily SEXY., Gay Feelings (possibly one-sided?), Homoerotic bullying, Homophobic Language, Insomnia, Internalized Homophobia, Jealousy, M/M, Manipulation, Masturbation, Open Relationships, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Harassment, Sexual Repression, excessive cussing, nocturnal emails!, sniffing clothes, tomwambs’ real kink is Being Loved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:55:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27961136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrunyuns/pseuds/Scrunyuns
Summary: So what exactly did happen in the two hours between 3AM and 5AM on March 12th?Tom bullies Greg into having an impromptu sleepover.
Relationships: Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans, references to Shiv/Tom
Comments: 4
Kudos: 61
Collections: The Missing Hours: 3–5 a.m. on the night of March 12





	Breaking Some Greggs

**Author's Note:**

> This was based on that deleted scene from S2E7 (which hasn’t been released yet, sadly) where Tom takes Greg’s bed and makes him sleep on the floor. Just couldn’t stop my tomgreg brainrot from filling in that blank, and so here’s the result. Hope you enjoy!

“The floor?” 

Greg’s eyes are large, wet and pleading - just like Mondale’s, whenever he’s being made to get into his enclosure. With good reason; Tom has just informed him that he is commandeering his bed for the evening.

”Yeah,” Tom nods, matter-of-factly. “I was a boar on the floor for you, so now you get to repay me by being a boar on the floor for me.”

The United Yuppies of Benetton have all gone home for the evening, so now Tom finally has him alone. Greg is anxiously pacing while puffing away on a spliff, probably worrying about the prospect of getting his legs broken, great big clouds of skunk surrounding him. Good thing this is a spacious condo with high ceilings; if Tom didn’t know any better, he’d say Greg was trying to smoke him out like a badger.

“Why can’t I just like, sleep here on the couch?”

“Because, Greg,” Tom starts, with the cadence of an exasperated school teacher, “I wouldn’t be able to monitor your movements, would I? You could slip out the door like a thief in the night, off to make more copies. Or even take the existing copies to the media, really fuck me up the keister.”

“I wouldn’t-“

“But you would though, you fucking pest! Just admit it. Fuck.”

Tom takes a long swig off a bottle of craft beer he’d found in the fridge. The label doesn’t look cheap, but it tastes like fucking bong water - probably one of Greg’s feeble attempts at wooing his hip new buddies. 

“No, my friend,” Tom continues, “I’m afraid that, until those documents are mere dust particles on the wind, your rightful place is at the foot of the bed. You can be my little pet for the evening. Aheheh.”

There’s a certain challenge in trying to appear nonchalant about this. The idea of Greg sitting patiently at his feet like a loyal dog, waiting for further instruction, is undeniably thrilling. Tom feels electric.

“That doesn’t really seem fair, Tom... like, it’s my bed. Don’t you think that, perhaps, making me sleep on the floor like a dog is just... kinda harsh? Like cruel and unusual punishment, or- or something?”

Tom has to laugh. That’s his Greg; always so goddamn melodramatic.

“I mean, it was your idea to stay over,” Greg continues, sounding increasingly desperate as he puts his bud out in a steel ashtray. “So maybe, like... maybe _you_ should be the one sleeping on the floor, is what I’m saying.”

Greg shrugs, and he looks so goddamn sheepish. It seems he knows that he can’t possibly win here, but damn if he isn’t gonna try for it anyway. Because that’s just how shameless he is, this fucking punk.

Tom knows quite well where the threshold to Greg’s personal space lies, but he steps over it anyway. He makes a big point of it, in fact, getting right up in Greg’s sweet little face, just like he’s done a thousand times before. He loves it here, in Greg’s intimate sphere... it feels like home.

“Is that so?” Tom asks, now almost nose to nose with his young protégé. “It was _your_ idea to withhold your part of the deal. That nice new office of yours, the money, the title - you know I can take that all away. In a _heartbeat_ , Gregory.”

“Y-Yeah...” Greg stammers.

Tom can tell the kid is already getting nervous, because he keeps trying to brush a lock of hair away from his forehead, that silly little habit of his that always comes out when he’s being put in an awkward position. Tom likes it though, likes seeing him squirm. There really is something to be said for the way Greg folds in on himself like a deflating sex doll... like this, he is almost at eyeline with Tom, even if he’s got a good three inches on him.

Once again Greg is reminiscent of Mondale; he has met his match now, an alpha male, so he’s letting himself shrink. Submitting.

“And I could also take your kneecaps,” Tom adds, the last nail in the coffin. “As previously discussed.”

He takes another swig of the disgusting swill, just for dramatic effect. And then, because he is not a _complete_ monster:

“But I would rather not. I would really rather it didn’t have to come to that, Greg.”

Greg heaves a great big mournful sigh. What small helping of good posture he might have had left is crumbling like shoddy brickwork under the terrible weight of his boss’ words.

“Yeah alright, Tom. Fine.”

He is not happy about it, that much is clear. But Tom knows, though, that there must be a small part of Greg that finds this just as exciting as he does. The delicious tug of war, being put in his place a little bit.

_Yeah, he fucking loves it._

—

“How’s the floor, cumsock?”

“Hard, Tom. And cold. Thanks for your, uh, continued concern.”

_Jesus, what a sourpuss._

“Well, this’ll be good for you, I think - character building, if you will.”

“Character building?” Greg echoes. “Sorry Tom, but I’m not, um... really feeling like you’re building me up right now, dude.”

“Before I can build you up, young Gregory, I must break you down... or break you _in,_ perhaps. Ahaha.”

Greg sighs.

“What?” Tom asks in a voice he thinks is just high pitched enough to disabuse his friend of any notion he might have that he is being sexually harassed. Because that’s not what this is. Not really.

“You know... you can’t make a _Tomlette_ without breaking a few _Greggs_.”

_Hah! Fuck me, that’s good._ Tom is simply astounded by his own cutting wit. _Gotta remember to write that one down._

Greg isn’t laughing, though.

“I’m not an egg, Tom.”

“Shiv says different. Apparently, when you were a little ba-“

“I looked like an egg, yeah, I’ve heard that one before,” Greg interrupts. “Look, could you just like... stop talking, maybe? Trying to sleep on the floor is, you know, hard enough as it is? Like, literally.”

“Oh, Greg, don’t be such a primadonna,” Tom laughs as stretches out in Greg’s sizable bed, making a starfish of himself. “At least you have that tacky sheepskin of yours between you and the floor. Finally you’re reaping the rewards of your provincial aesthetic sensibilities.”

If he were being honest, there’s actually nothing wrong with a good sheepskin. It’s just a bit fanciful, a bit rustic and bohemian for a sleek $7 mill. condo such as this. Sheepskins are for your holiday cottage in Nova Scotia, and if Greg wasn’t so fucking green and had known anything about interior design, he would’ve known this.

More to the point, Tom can’t really find anything else in this apartment that he can give Greg a solid ribbing for; it would seem his young friend has actually decked out his new abode rather nicely - daresay it looks like he’s had professional help. But damned if he’s actually going to tell Greg that. Can’t let the kid go and get a big head.

And Greg doesn’t seem to want to dignify Tom’s silly little dig with a response, not even to defend himself. There follows a certain sting of disappointment with that, as it always does when Greg goes all quiet on him... but Tom is not about to unpack any of that right now. He just lies there in the icy silence for a few minutes, listening to Greg tossing and turning on the floor, increasingly amused by the little grunts of discomfort. It brings a smile to his face. _God, why does giving Greg shit feel so good?_

“Well, sweet dreams,” Tom yawns. “We got important business in the morning. So rest up, kiddo.”

“Easy for you to say,” comes a surly mutter from down on the floor.

A stray thought passes across Tom’s mind, uninvited and unwelcome: _You could’ve just asked if we could share the bed, Greg._

—

Tom wakes, his t-shirt drenched in sweat. At first he’s not quite sure what’s up and what’s down.

The fog slowly lifts as he rubs his eyes and squints out into the darkness, scanning his surroundings. _Oh right, I’m at Greg’s. I fell asleep._ It is dark outside, aside from the soft yellow glow of the street lights sifting through the curtains - still night, then.

When Tom checks his phone he finds that it’s only just crawling up on 3AM. _Fuck._

He truly hates it when this happens, can never go back to sleep until hours upon hours later... Tom knows the drill, there’s really no point in even trying. And he’ll be damned if he’s going to just lie here in the dark and listen to his own terrible, terrible thoughts. Hard pass!

Switching on the bedside lamp and peering over the side of the bed, he finds that his hostage is still there. Well, that’s a relief.

Greg is curled up on his side, a thick cashmere blanket wrapped around his stick figure body as he snores softly into a decorative throw pillow that can’t possibly be comfortable enough to sleep on. He looks smaller like this, and very peaceful - serene, even.

_Hm. Well, we can’t have that._

“Greg,” Tom whispers.

Why is he whispering? No one else is here, who the fuck is he keeping his voice down for? Side effect of living with Shiv, he supposes; that girl is such a light sleeper, she might as well be sleeping upright and with her eyes open.

“Greg,” Tom repeats, louder this time.

Still no response. Typical stoner brat: Bitching and moaning about the sleeping arrangements, yet two minutes later he is dead to the world and now there’s not an air raid siren on Earth that could rouse Sleeping Beauty from his slumber. 

Meanwhile Tom is feeling like the princess on the fucking pea here, unable to sleep and absolutely gagging for a chat. Any chat. Even if it’s with Greg Egg, the most boring man North of Staten Island. God, that droning voice of his - always harping on about his cornucopia of obscure ailments or what he’d had for lunch that afternoon that had made him feel queasy - it could put even the most coked-up insomniac to sleep. Perhaps that’s why Greg can go to sleep so easily; he just bores himself into a coma with his own tedious thoughts.

But that kind of content is precisely what Tom’s ears need right now. His own personal ASMR puppet.

“Greg,” he tries again, this time with a soft shake of Greg’s shoulder. “Greg, you bastard. Wake up.”

Nothing! If he couldn’t hear him breathing right now, he would’ve assumed the guy had gone and died on him. Frozen to death on the cold, hard floor, like a stretched out street urchin.

_Fucking stoners,_ Tom thinks to himself. _This is your brain on drugs. Fried egg motherfucker... hah! Greg the Egg, indeed._

Deeply frustrated, Tom grabs his phone and opens his email, starts typing a subject line in all caps: ‘YOU CAN’T MAKE A TOMLETTE WITHOUT BREAKING SOME GREGGS.’ Brilliant.

Pressing send, he waits for the incoming “ding-ding!” of Greg’s phone to finally wake him.

It doesn’t.

Greg’s distinct lack of any Pavlovian response to the chiming bells of professional responsibility is quite infuriating, although probably to be expected. Whenever Tom’s phone goes off in the middle of the night, that’s his whole night ruined - Greg doesn’t have the same sense of urgency yet. He’d once told Tom that he usually leaves his phone on silent when he’s off the clock, because “that’s officially Greg Time”. Tom had quickly gotten him out of that terrible habit, though.

_Fucking millennials. Zero work ethic._

Tom goes back to the email and forwards it to his slumbering assistant once more. And then again. And again and again and again, until he has lost count entirely.

“Ding-ding!” goes the phone. “Ding-ding! Ding-ding! Ding-ding!” But Greg still slumbers on. Fucker.

When Greg wakes up tomorrow morning, his inbox will be flooded with Tomlettes and broken Greggs. That’ll show him.

_Hope you like a nice helping of spam with your breakfast, bitch boy._

—

It’s a quarter to four, and Tom is fuming: This has not at all turned out the way he’d planned.

It doesn’t seem fair at all, that _he_ should be the one who is sleepless when he is lying on a thousand dollar top mattress dressed in Japanese linen sheets, while Greg is on the fucking floor and somehow still catching Zs like a drunk toddler resting on a fluffy cloud.

_Oh, to be a dumb stoner._

Tom has to assume it’s an age thing too; young folks seem to be able to sleep anywhere, anytime. _Insufferable._

If he tries to recall himself in his college years, he can see a young Thomas Wambsgans napping in the library. So he had been one of those assholes too, once, before he’d gotten old and weary. Before he had accumulated too much shame and regret to be able to sleep at night.

Tom leans over the side of the bed and regards Greg for a moment.

_Well if I can’t sleep, neither should he._

Ever so gently, he starts to unravel Greg from his kashmere cocoon, tossing the blanket to the side with what is not an inconsiderable amount of sadistic mirth. 

“Heheh. Try sleeping now, pissrat.”

Greg, in his comatose state, barely registers the sudden loss of cover. It doesn’t take long, however, before he eventually starts shivering like a leaf in the wind. He’s still fully clothed, in his flannel pajamas and big wooly socks, a look that had made Tom laugh out loud when he’d first seen it (“I don’t have much body fat, Tom. My elongated limbs run cold in the night.”) But he is obviously freezing now, teeth clattering away in the night. He hugs himself for warmth. It’s such a thoroughly pitiful sight, Tom regrets his evil deed almost immediately.

“Sorry, bud,” he whispers softly as he drapes the blanket back over Greg’s great big quaking body and gives him a good tuck-in.

Giving a long, hard think about what he’d just done, Tom lets himself sink back against the exquisite goose feather softness of Greg’s pillow.

Tom is no monster. He would’ve gladly let that gangly fool have his comforter and his good pillow. But if it’s his only set - which it is - then, well, that’s a Greg Problem. Because you can be damn sure Tom Wambsgans is not about to sleep with a mere throw pillow and a wooly blanket... he’s not some fucking Charles Dickens character, like Greggman the Eggman over here.

But this begs the question: Why _doesn’t_ Greg have more than one set for his bed? Why just one pillow? Does he never have any company in this bed?

_How fucking tragic... albeit very on brand for him, you have to admit._

Tom’s thoughts inevitably wander to the notion of the sort of individual that would willingly get into bed with Gregory Hirsch in the first place. _Must be a real sad freak,_ he concludes. _Somebody with an even stronger virgin energy than Greg himself._

And then, because he can’t stop his terrible, wicked brain from going wherever the fuck it wants: Who would _Greg_ want to fuck?

Greg - _Cousin_ Greg, Tom reminds himself - is a decidedly sexless being. He has never seen him showing any interest in women, not even the really hot ones in the clubs that Tom has taken him to in the past, nor the private parties they’ve attended, where nine out of ten ladies look like goddamn runway models. So Greg could very easily be gay, he realizes... Tom has a brief moment of gay panic then, about lying in Greg’s bed like a juicy piece of fruit ripe for the taking, before reminding himself that he hasn’t really seen Greg ever scoping out any man butts, either.

_Maybe he’s into trains, planes and automobiles, instead of people... a horse...? Or maybe a giraffe? Something closer to his own proportions, haha._

Suddenly there’s a soft little noise coming from the side of the bed, like a whimper.

When Tom looks over, Greg is still fast asleep. He’s not shivering anymore, but he looks somewhat uneasy; his brow is furrowed and his lips are moving a little, as if he’s talking. He must be dreaming. Having a nightmare, probably.

There’s a pang of something in Tom’s stomach then.

_Hm. I must be getting hungry._

Greg whimpers again, and Tom knows that he should find it all very annoying. He doesn’t, though. Not at all. In fact, it’s more than a little bit endearing... Tom feels like reaching out and touching Greg, to settle him with a gentle hand squeezing his arm or stroking his back. _But that would be weird, right?_

It’s certainly not the first time Tom has had to push down on an unexpected swell of emotion brought on by his young friend - Greg looks so warm and boyish, with his dimples and his deep blue puppy eyes, it’s hard not to feel some way or another about him - but now that Tom is finally seeing him in a state of repose, curled in on himself, talking and moaning in his sleep, face flushed and hair all tousled, completely vulnerable and so very real...

_Goddamn, he’s cute._

_\- Jesus Christ on the cross, where did that come from? Oh no, no, no, no, no. This won’t do. This won’t do at all._

_This aggression will not stand, Gregory!_

Trying his best to ignore Greg’s oddly evocative sounds, Tom covers his ears and buries his face in his pillow. But ah, shit _..._ the fucking thing smells like Greg. Of course it does. Smells like cheap laundry detergent, the faintly sweet odor of weed, plus something else that is just entirely indefinable. Sort of an Eau de Greg, if you will.

_Of all the times to get a chubby, Wambsgans, you incorrigible fucking fruit!_ He’d really thought he’d put this kind of foolishness behind him when he’d left college. Well, apparently not!

Tom’s mind is desperately grasping for something, anything that might put a stop to the madness.

He decides to think about all the times when Greg’s been a real boob, when he’s fucked up his coffee order or said something idiotic at a meeting or dressed like a Sears mannequin or talked back.

However, this only seems to make matters worse: In his mind’s eye, he can see Greg’s stupid fucking bimbo face as Tom berates him for something or other, those soft red lips of his shaping an O of confusion, a look of dumb subservience and eagerness to please that always comes across his face when he’s being torn a new one, but right now all Tom can think of is how much he’d like to just take that sweet mouth and stick his dick in it. _FUCK!_

When Tom rolls over on his side, he accidentally receives a bit of friction that threatens to unleash a terrible, sticky flood all over Greg’s clean sheets.

_Shit._ He is closer than he’d thought.

It must be the fact that he hasn’t made love to Shiv for almost three weeks now. He doesn’t really masturbate either, he usually tries to save up all his excitement for her, but she’s always so busy or has a headache or whatever, so... yeah, he’s just sensitive. This isn’t necessarily about Greg at all, really.

_But would it really be so bad though,_ he finds himself wondering, _if I just... had a little bit of a rub up against the mattress? With intent, this time? What if I rubbed one out right here, but without using my hands?_

Not using his hands seems vaguely less monstrous - or at the very least, less deliberate. It would probably grant him some plausible deniability if Greg wakes up and sees him. _“Oh, so I just happened to have a wet dream, okay Greg? It’s not a big deal, Greg. Everybody has them, Greg. Grow up, Greg.”_

It’s not as if he’s planning to hover over poor sleeping Greg while he jacks it and smell his hair and jizz all over his face or anything. He’s not some weirdo creep... he is simply going to hump the bed a little bit, while listening to Greg moaning in his sleep. And maybe smell the pillow. _Just guy stuff, right? It’s cool. Greg is a pretty easy going guy, pretty forgiving. He would understand._

_But he wouldn’t, though,_ Tom’s last working brain cell is forced to conclude. It would be a terrible breach of trust, a vile and selfish act that might bring irreparable damage upon their already delicate work/play dynamic, should Greg happen to finally wake up and find him in that state. And this is not really something that Tom is willing to risk.

So he decides to go beat his meat in Greg’s bathroom instead. Because that’s probably somewhat acceptable.

—

Tom has got to give himself a pat on the back for the present he’d bought Greg in the event of his last birthday: A scent-free designer lotion. It’s currently working wonders on his cock.

_“For your sensitive skin,”_ he’d said, and this had put stars in Greg’s eyes.

Tom likes giving Greg nice things, even if the kid can easily afford to buy all sorts of nice things for himself with his own money now, what with all those extra zeros on his paycheck. He likes pampering him. Likes putting stars in his eyes.

_“That’s so nice,”_ Tom can recall him saying. _“I, like, actually needed this for my, uh... my cold eczema. On my hands, you know?”_

_“I know, Greg. You wouldn’t shut up about it for a while there.”_

_“Wow, Tom... I can’t believe you remembered.”_ Greg had expertly swerved away from the insult. _“Thank you so much!”_

He’d almost gone in for a hug then, but had decided last second to go with an awkward arm pat instead. Greg does this; he’s apparently a pretty tactile guy, so his instinct is always to go in for a hug - much to the dismay of his cold, touch-shy cousins - but Greg seldom lets himself try and have a hug with Tom, even if they’ve become more friends and family than boss and employee by now. _It’s like I’m forbidden fruit or something,_ Tom ponders.

Not that he’s has given this a lot of thought or anything.

Either way, it’s a good thing there never became anything of that would-be hug, though. Otherwise Tom might have spent the rest of Greg’s birthday bash fighting with the little man in his trousers pitching a tent.

_Fuck! Stop thinking about stupid fucking Cousin Greg and the weird boners he gives you. Think about your wife! Think about Shiv, goddammit!_

But thinking about Shiobhan - how she is Greg’s polar opposite in every conceivable way, right down to the rather dramatic genetic divergence with regards to their respective derrières - is doing precious little for him right now. He can’t think about how she squirms away from his touch, how she looks bored out of her mind when they make love, how he always feels like he needs to prove something to her... that he’s worthy of her time. Even now that they’ve gone and tied the knot and everything.

 _I must’ve spent more time with Greg than with Shiv since we got married,_ Tom ruminates. _What the fuck kinda marriage is that._ If anything, thinking about Shiv is just making him feel unbearably sad. And that is making him flag a little.

Sighing, Tom lifts his gaze and notices a crimson bathrobe hanging on the wall next to the shower. He gets up from his perch on the toilet lid and walks over to it, his unsullied hand reaching out to touch it.

The fabric is so soft under his fingers. It feels expensive. Tom supposes Greg must really be settling into his new normal of being disgustingly, nauseatingly rich; his tastes have certainly improved since they first met. He’s come into his own a lot more. Apparently he wears _crimson_ now, if you can believe such a thing.

_Yeah, that color probably looks really good on him, too..._

Tom buries his nose in the bathrobe, inhaling its scent. It smells nice. Kind of like the pillow.

 _It’s big, but is it long enough to cover Greg’s vast area?_ Tom wonders. _Maybe it would be... a bit short on him? A bit slutty?_

He resumes stroking himself, immediately growing hard again. All previous thoughts of “no, that’s gay” have now been unceremoniously thrown by the wayside. Images of Greg are flooding his mind; the big dumb whore lounging around his huge living room, dressed in nothing but this expensive robe, smoking a doob and drinking rosé champagne and sometimes “accidentally” flashing Tom a bit of thigh. A very, very long thigh.

He could slip a sneaky hand up under Greg’s robe and see his large blue eyes staring back at him, scandalized.

_“B-but Tom,”_ he would stammer. _“We work together. You’re married to my cousin- we can’t- there are rules-!”_

Then Tom would say something devastatingly cool, something along the lines of _“Fuck the rules,”_ like the fucking boss that he is. And then they would kiss. And Greg would enjoy it, _a lot._ He would just melt into Tom’s mouth instantly, moaning in ecstasy. And he’d say “I’ve wanted this for so long, Tom,” and then Tom wouldn’t feel so small anymore.

Reflexively, unwillingly, he starts to wonder: Would Greg ever want to be in an open relationship? Would he ask for threesomes and tossed salads and snowballing (that’s what it’s called, Tom now knows, he finally googled it) and paddling and toe sucking and being choked out and whatever else a jaded, sexually bored city slicker such as himself should be into these days, according to the degenerates over at GQ?

But Greg is not a city slicker, though. He’s nothing but a hapless stoner boy from the frozen North who somehow managed to catapult himself directly into the heart of darkness that is Waystar Royco. Do they even have cities up there in Canada - like a _real_ city? Like New York? Hah, no. No sexual deviants in good old Canada.

The depraved socialites of Manhattan would gobble up a sweet virginal Canuck like Greg Hirsch for breakfast. Perhaps literally!

Now Tom is pumping his cock furiously.

The mere thought of it makes him feel absolutely rabid: That some sweaty, inbred old money fuck from the Upper East Side with hair plugs and a hankering for stork-like boys should be pawing at poor gullible Greg’s almost non-existent ass, back in the dingy side room of a Brooklyn warehouse party so seedy and vile that if you ran a blacklight over it, it would light up like a fucking fluorescent Jackson Pollock. _Fuuuuuuck that!_

Tom would kick in the door and murder every motherfucker in that godforsaken place with his bare hands, then he’d scoop Greg up and take him back to civilization - maybe in a vintage Jaguar - and he would carry him over the threshold - because in his fantasy his arms are fucking ripped and can bear the weight of Greg’s unfortunate gigantism - and he’d throw him onto the bed.

And then he would _make fucking love to him,_ goddamnit. Missionary style, like a normal, well-adjusted human being. Like someone who doesn’t need any sordid threeways or anal fisting in order to get off. Just a simple, salt-of-the-earth guy from the Midwest who longs to whisper “I love you” in the ear of someone who adores him - not someone who merely tolerates him - and to hear the words “I’m yours” in return. _Now, is that really too much to fucking ask?!_

Tom comes, face buried deep in his host’s luxurious bathrobe, while he pictures Greg gazing up at him with a mouth like an O and stars in his eyes.

—

It’s still dark outside. Tom has finally managed to get all his spunk out of Greg’s fancy bathrobe and hung it back up to dry. His immediate reaction had been a brief, mad impulse to just set the damn thing on fire in the sink or throw it out the window, but he quickly realized that it would be a bit nuts. Also, he’d have to buy Greg a new bathrobe.

He trudges back up to Greg’s bedroom, his feet heavy with shame and emptiness and exhaustion, hearing that big soft bed calling out to him... only to find that his turf has now been taken by the enemy.

“Oh, you fucking shitpiglet,” he chuckles softly. “Fuck you...”

The cashmere blanket lies discarded on the floor, alongside the shitty throw pillow. Tucked into bed is Greg’s lanky body, with only the top of his bushy head and his monstrously large feet sticking out from under the covers. He is snoring softly, no longer moaning and whimpering in his sleep.

_He looks alright like that, actually,_ Tom notes, somewhat fondly.

Deciding to just admit defeat, he lies down on the sheepskin next to the bed. He could crawl into bed with Greg, just to fuck with his head, but given what had recently transpired in the bathroom... best not. He doesn’t know if he can trust himself now.

Tom pulls out his phone; it’s already 5AM. _Jesus, really?_

He opens his Tomlette email once again, and settles in for a night of aggressively spamming Greg’s inbox until he eventually passes out.

_Your punishment, Gregory,_ Tom thinks to himself. _For being so... so Greg. For making me lose sleep and cum all over your stupid fucking Hugh Hefner robe. Slut._

**Author's Note:**

> Damn that was a lotta words for a fic thats just abt a clown who gets horny and wanks. Ah well I hope you enjoyed it :-)
> 
> PS: not beta read so lemme know if typos, thanks


End file.
